by Lee Goldberg
"Terrific," he snorted. "It will come in handy when they crucify me. I don't suppose you have a crown of thorns I could borrow?"
The caller hung up. The other man sat for a moment in silence, tapping his fingers on the leather-bound book. Someday he might have to kill that man. The caller was already showing signs of weakness that couldn't be tolerated.
He reached for the phone and dialed.
"Yeah?"
"I have another elimination for you to arrange," he said smoothly. "Same price, same procedure. As usual, make sure he looks like another innocent victim caught up in gang warfare. Be absolutely certain."
"Okay, okay. What is the guy's name?"
"Kirk Jeffries. He's coming into town in two days. I trust you can get the details on your own?"
"Yeah, I got sources. What about Macklin?"
"I told you, let him have his fun, and then you can have yours. Just do as I tell you."
"Macklin should die now."
His anger flared. "Do as I say! That's what I pay you for."
He slammed down the phone. Someone knocked timidly at his door. "Enter," he yelled.
The huge oak door swung open and a woman wearing only a white bathrobe stepped meekly into the room, closing the door behind her. She was slender and tanned, her breasts full, her legs long and smooth. She had a euphoric, punch-drunk look that labeled her as one of his many, nameless, utterly devoted minions.
She approached him slowly, stopping just in front of his massive desk. He walked around the desk, came up behind her, and turned her by the shoulders to face him.
He looked at her with father-like warmth. But inside the frustrations were boiling, had brought him to a breaking point. He recognized the symptoms well and struggled to reveal none of them to the girl. Touching her hand tenderly, he led her to the center of the room.
He motioned with his head to her bathrobe. "Take it off," he commanded.
The robe slipped off her soft, brown skin and fell to a clump at her feet. Her empty, trusting gaze met his as she obediently dropped to her knees. "I love you, my savior."
Her placid acceptance of his whim made him nauseous. She was empty and useless, utterly devoid of redeeming value. Yet he had made her that way. A part of him wanted her like that. Needed her like that.
Elias Simon smiled. "I love you, too, my child."
He turned as if to walk away and then spun, giving her a sharp kick in the jaw that snapped her neck with a crack. The blow catapulted her young, budding body across the room and sent her stunned soul seeking explanations in the next world.
He felt much better.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brett Macklin lay naked in bed, his sheets a wrinkled heap at his feet, staring across the room at a killer.
He stared into his own bloodshot, dull eyes reflecting back at him in the mirror above his bureau. The eyes didn't have any of the humor he had always seen in them before. They were a soldier's eyes, eyes that had in the last week dispassionately witnessed slaughter, torture, and depravity. All of it in live-action, full-color, six-track Dolby stereo.
What have I become?
It was a question he couldn't answer. Not yet. Not until the killing had ended and he could go hide somewhere and rebuild himself. Reconstruct his world again. His father, a constant authority figure in his life, a symbol of unshakeable stability, was gone. The justice system that had been his father's religion, a system that had earned his unquestioning devotion, a system he had taught his son to respect and obey, had betrayed them both. And the man Brett Macklin thought he knew best, himself, was now a stranger to him.
He sat up, resting his back against the headboard.
Macklin was startled by his new single-mindedness of purpose, this violent determination to eradicate the slime that had taken his father, then Melody, and then Saul and Moe. A single-mindedness of purpose he easily gave in to even though it defied all his morals, his entire sense of right and wrong. How long had he really been living with this stranger? How had it manifested itself in the past? How would it shape his future? The reflection cast its unwavering gaze upon him and he knew tonight he would kill again.
# # # # # #
The room sizzled. The cool night breeze and the whirring fan didn't change a thing. They just couldn't compete with Busty Keaton. This woman could melt the polar ice cap.
But tonight she was farther south, trapped forever on scratched celluloid, dancing on Primo's wall. She writhed and contorted in front of him, her fingers between her legs, her head tossing madly from side to side.
"Yeahhhhhh." Primo grinned, taking a deep drag on the best weed he'd ever had. Beside him, on the metal desk, the old projector could barely keep the images up, rattling and whining as it sucked in the film and spilled it out around Primo's feet.
She fell to her knees, bent backwards, and opened herself up to him. "Hey, momma, c'mere and sit on my lucky bar stool," he cackled, pulling on his crotch.
The small, wooden box of a building seemed to close in around him. Sweat glistened on his forehead and chest, dampening his open shirt. It was just him, the heat, and Busty in the scrap-yard office, having a party.
His gritty body odor and the pot smoke mingled with the smell of years of cigarettes and cigars, cheeseburgers and belches, rusting scrap metal and dusty windowsills. The infrequent visitors to the scrap-yard office did their business in a hurry, talking fast and making sure they didn't bump into whatever must have shit and then died there.
Stacks of yellowed invoices and forms lined the walls that surrounded the two desks in the center of the room. In one corner, a soiled army cot rested in the shadows beside an old Frigidaire. For Primo, this was home sweet home.
Primo found the shack comforting. Especially at night. Here he always felt relaxed, safe. Nobody, not even that spineless bastard blowing away his friends, would dare bother him here. A Saturday night special lay beside the projector and a switchblade was in his back pocket, pressing against his buttocks.
Primo's eyes widened as Busty bent forward and pressed her face between her legs.
"Holy shit," he muttered. It was the most fantastic feat he had ever seen. For the first time in his life, he felt something akin to respect. Primo involuntarily shivered. It wasn't a reaction to Busty's amazing contortions. It was something else, a tickle between his shoulder blades. He tried to shrug it off. But the irritation continued, making it impossible for him to enjoy Busty's orgiastic writhing.
He looked over his shoulder at the window behind him. Brett Macklin stood outside, expressionless, his breath fogging the glass.
Primo grabbed his gun off the desk and swiveled, pumping three bullets in rapid succession into the window. The glass shattered and a cool breeze swept into the room. "Ha-ha! Blew the fuck out of you, asshole!"
Primo, his gun smoking, stalked up to the window and peered over the sill. There was no body.
"You're dead, fuckwad," Primo yelled at the stacks of metal sheets, twisted car bodies, and rusted piping. "I'm gonna cut off your balls and make you eat 'em!"
Primo climbed out the window and crouched on the cold dirt, the gun held out in front of him. As he walked into the shadows cast by the scrap piles, he could hear Busty Keaton squealing wildly in the office.
The crazy motherfucker Mr. Jury picked a fight with the wrong guy. "I'm gonna shish-kebab your fuckin' head, motherfucker. No one fucks with Primo." He walked in smooth strides around a heap of urinals, sinks, and busted refrigerators. Goose bumps rose on his damp skin, chilled by the cool air blowing through the scrap yard.
He heard a whistle behind him. "Hey, shorty, lookin' for me?"
Primo whirled around. Something icy splashed on his face, stinging his eyes and soaking his upper body.
Coughing, Primo stumbled backward, his vision blurred. A strong odor filled his nostrils and burned the tender membranes.
"What the fuck," Primo spit, stumbling back against the refrigerator. The smell of the substance was overpowering. His hear
tbeat built quickly into a frenzied pounding. "Gasoline," he hissed fearfully.
Primo, still unable to see clearly, broke into a run. He stumbled over a pipe, sliding face first into the dirt.
He frantically scrambled to his feet and saw two figures standing five yards away, both Brett Macklin. Blinking hard, tears streaming down his face, Primo raised his gun and pointed at the double vision of Brett Macklin.
"You're dead, asshole." Primo fired. Macklin threw himself sideways to the ground and felt the bullet whiz past his ear. The spark from the gun barrel ignited Primo's arm. Macklin saw the split second of surprise and terror in Primo's eyes before the fire consumed Primo's face. A high, wild scream escaped from Primo as the fire engulfed his body and drew it into a tiny, twisted curl of bubbling flesh.
Macklin stood up slowly, the smell of burned meat heavy in the air. He felt nothing. Not even hate.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sirens comforted Esteban as he strolled down the street. The sound was a natural part of the night, the babbling brook and the wind whistling through the trees of his urban wilderness. Mother Nature here was a robot made of asphalt and steel, grease and tar, with eyes of dirty glass and lungs of soot.
Grit and gravel and shards of glass cruncheditted under his feet.
He embraced the warm smell of exhaust in the air and the sound of screaming sirens. It gave him a fleeting sense of security as he made his journey to Primo's place. There, he would be safe.
Mr. Jury was after them, and Primo could protect him. Alone, Esteban felt utterly defenseless and vulnerable. Primo made him feel strong. Primo made him feel a lot of things. Primo got him women, which he knew he could never get himself, drugs, booze, and money. Primo was father, friend, and foe.
Esteban knew his value to the gang was not as a violent commando. He was an errand boy and a punching bag. It was a perilous existence, but he liked to see people scared. He enjoyed it when they set that cop on fire. It made him feel strong. Made him feel like he had balls like Primo and Baldo. Sometimes it even made him come.
His allegiance was to anyone who could protect him and keep him entertained in this fashion. Primo and the gang did both exceedingly well. But there was another who did it better, who offered him more and gave him some sense of power. Someone who, until Mr. Jury came along, scared him more than Primo.
He saw the flames when he turned the corner. A crowd of people lined the fence of the scrap yard, and police cars were parked everywhere. Panic stormed through his guts. Not Primo! he thought to himself. Primo was too macho, too tough. Without thinking, Esteban stepped off the curb and walked across the street.
He heard the loud wail of a horn. Turning his head, he saw a pair of headlights closing on him. The coroner's wagon screeched to a halt inches from him.
"Watch out, boy, you're going to get hurt," a white-clad driver yelled. Esteban fled without looking back. He fled until his chest was tight with pain and his legs felt like lead.
Lost, scared, and out of breath, Esteban felt his bladder opening and then the warm wetness trickling down the side of his leg.
"Oh God," Esteban whined. "I'm next."
After what seemed like hours, his breathing slowly returned to normal. The shaking became chilly, infrequent quivers, and the pain ebbed in his chest. Esteban realized he had to think his way out of this. He wasn't like the others Mr. Jury killed. Esteban had an ally. A powerful ally. He would go to him for help.
Yes, he would help me, Esteban thought, straightening up. I won't die.
Esteban, comforted now, opened his eyes and turned away from the wall. And stared straight into a gun barrel. Esteban shrieked, throwing his hands up in front of his face.
Brett Macklin cocked the gun.
"Wait! Wait!" Esteban pleaded, his voice cracking. "Look, I'm not the one you want, man. Look, I'm small-time, okay?"
"Convince me," Macklin said softly.
"It's bigger man, really, it's bigger. I'll help you. Look, the cop wasn't burned 'cause of us. See, the mayor wanted him killed. The mayor told us to kill the cop."
Macklin touched the gun to Esteban's forehead. "You'll have to do better than that."
Esteban moved backward, his shoulder scraping the wall. "You're making a big mistake if you waste me. Look, I can help you. Get me safe and I'll talk."
Macklin kept silent.
"Huh? Okay?! I'll talk, just get me safe."
Macklin stared into Esteban's eyes. "You want me to swallow this bullshit about Lucas Breen? Breen didn't stroll down here and ask you to kill my father."
"No!" Esteban squealed, nodding his head up and down, eager to please Macklin. "But someone did for him, really, I know, so for Christ's sake keep me alive to prove it. I'm better for you alive. Christ, you can always kill me later, right?"
Macklin lowered his gun and grabbed Esteban by the collar. "All right, punk, this story had better be good. Your life depends on it."
"Yeah, yeah, it'll be good." He looked fearfully into Macklin's eyes.
He released Esteban and started walking down the street. Pushing Esteban in front of him.
"Why was my father killed?" Macklin asked.
Esteban swallowed. "Look, alls I know is that he was asking too many questions. He wanted to know everything about what every gang was doing. You know? Everything he heard on the street he wanted double-checked."
"Like what?"
"I dunno. Like if he heard the Black Belts messed up with the Cougars, he wanted me to find him someone who saw it happen. Someone who could prove to him that it was true."
"Why?" Macklin roared, grabbing Esteban by the arm and dragging him closer.
"I don't know!" Esteban yelled frantically. "I just did what he asked, you know?"
"What does this have to do with Lucas Breen?"
Before Esteban could answer, a gunshot rang out from across the street. Macklin dove behind a parked car, dragging Esteban down with him.
Macklin hadn't been quick enough. The right side of Esteban's head was gaping open, blood gurgling through a splintered mess of hair and bone. Esteban's body rattled, splashing blood on the car.
Macklin raised his gun and peeked around the front of the car. He could barely see the gunman standing in the shadows beside the building directly across the street. Macklin bolted up, firing the Magnum twice in the same motion.
The bullets glanced off the brick beside the gunman, who ducked and returned Macklin's fire.
Macklin pulled back as one bullet ricocheted off the car's front grill and another shattered the windshield.
Macklin heard the footfalls as the gun man abandoned his cover and ran down the alley. Macklin rose and sprinted across the street, hugging the walls of the building for cover as he dashed down the alley after the assailant.
He saw the gunman dart out of the alley and take cover behind a car. Macklin hurled himself against the wall as the gunman fired and felt the hot bite of the bullet slashing his forehead.
Macklin fell forward on his knees, blinded by the pain, blood streaming down his face. He blinked open his eyes and, reaching back to the wall to steady himself, stood up.
Wiping the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand, he slid along the wall to the street. Remaining in the shadows, he scanned the street. Parked cars lined both sides. No one was in sight.
Cautiously, he emerged from the alley and stepped dizzily into the street, the gun held shakily in his hand. The street was quiet. Macklin lowered his gun and sighed. Whoever it was had escaped.
Then Macklin heard a roar down the street to his left. He spun and saw a sedan racing towards him. He spread out his legs to brace himself and aimed the gun carefully in front of him, firing twice into the windshield of the oncoming sedan before leaping out of its path onto the hood of a parked car.
As the sedan thundered past, Macklin caught a quick glimpse of the driver before he tumbled off the hood and onto the sidewalk.
Macklin stood up slowly, swayed unsteadily, and watched
the car screech around the corner and disappear. Blackness closed in on him and he fell against the parked car, sliding to the sidewalk.
Groaning, Macklin willed himself to stand. He grabbed the car door and pulled himself up, his eyes closed, a fleeting image of the gunman flashing in his head. Macklin couldn't hold the image long enough to identify the man, but he knew one thing. The gunman was no stranger.
Macklin heard the echo of footsteps from the alley. The police must have been drawn to the gunfire. Macklin trudged down the street in the same direction the speeding sedan had gone.
He turned the corner and quickened his pace, his strides smoothing as the pain in his head waned and his sense of balance returned. Gradually, his walk became a sprint, his battered body protesting with innumerable aches as he forced it to move quickly through the night.
When he was certain no one was following him, he jogged along the twisting, circuitous route to his car, which he had parked a mile away from Primo's scrap yard. His face was twisted in anger. He had expected to be free of this whole nightmare by this evening, his father's death avenged, his life assuming some semblance of normalcy.
The gunman changed all that.
Macklin drove himself faster, straining his legs, trying to run the deep disappointment, the physical pain, and the burning rage out of him. Running for Macklin was like flying, a sort of freedom, a perch above it all from which to reflect. It gave him the distance to observe things more clearly.
But nothing was clear anymore.
The facts just didn't make any sense to him.
He had thought his father had been just another victim of a sadistic gang folly. Now it appeared to be more than that. Melody and Saul had told him his father had been puzzled by gang violence in the neighborhood.
What was it Melody had said? Macklin asked himself. Something about rumors, lies, that were sparking gang violence. Yes, that was it. People were acting on rumors about events that never occurred. Gangs were exacting deadly retribution from rival gangs over affronts and attacks that never happened.
